Film Reviews by griggs

Robot goes feral and starts a commune—oddly touching, slightly unsettling, and proof that even robots can have an existential crisis. Stunning.

The Breadwinner is a beautifully animated, quietly powerful tale that sticks with you. It’s got real emotional heft but never tips into sentimentality. The story centred on Parvana—a girl who disguises herself as a boy to support her family in Taliban-ruled Kabul—is told with heart and grit. It respects its audience, young and old, without sugarcoating—a moving, haunting gem of a film.

Soul was a film that surprised me. It's not your typical Pixar movie, but rather the jazz-loving, older cousin of Inside Out, dealing with existential questions. I initially thought it was a children's film, but it sparked deep thoughts about my life choices. The film is visually stunning, as expected, and has that classic Pixar heart, with some genuinely funny moments. However, what truly stood out was its unique ability to prompt personal reflection. It struck me quietly and thoughtfully, leaving me with a lot to ponder.

Anomalisa is a quietly devastating gem—equally inspired, heart-breaking and darkly funny. Only Charlie Kaufman could turn stop-motion puppets into something so painfully human. It’s a bleak, beautiful look at loneliness and disconnection, with moments of surprising tenderness. The attention to detail is staggering, and the voice work nails it. A proper showcase of Kaufman’s genius—funny, sad, and oddly unforgettable.

Beautifully bleak and darkly funny—like a hug from someone who just told you their tragic life story and then farted nervously.

Persepolis tells a powerful story with a striking style, even if it doesn’t quite hit every emotional beat. Given Iran’s regime and its harsh crackdowns on dissenting filmmakers, it’s clear why animation was the only option. It’s bold, personal, and political—if a touch heavy-handed in places.

My Life as a Courgette is a tender, melancholic stop-motion that surprises with its heartfelt portrayal of its oddly shaped characters. Released before Memoir of a Snail, it’s now easy to see why comparisons were made—both films explore sadness with a light but steady hand. The storytelling, with its straightforward yet effective approach, leaves a deep emotional imprint. It didn’t knock me sideways, but I felt quietly moved and admired its delicate treatment of difficult themes.

Visually striking and tackles an important subject with guts and originality. The animated format really stands out, and it’s an inventive way to explore trauma and memory. That said, I didn’t always feel emotionally drawn in. It’s the kind of film you’re glad exists, even if it doesn’t fully connect with you. Interesting and important, but not something I’d rush to watch again.

What makes When the Wind Blows so quietly devastating isn’t just the subject matter—it’s the fact that it comes from Raymond Briggs, better known for cosy, child-friendly tales like The Snowman. That contrast is hard to get your head around. It taps into nuclear dread—that paralysing fear of annihilation we try to keep buried. But here, it’s filtered through twee domesticity and blind faith in government advice. Back then, the couple’s trust might’ve seemed touching. Now, it feels like satire. Naive. And yet, that’s the point. Watching them faff around with paper bags and doors is almost funny—until it isn’t. The emotional gut punch is how slowly things unravel. No big explosions, just quiet, creeping horror. It’s heartbreaking, surreal, and still painfully relevant. A grim reminder that good intentions and stiff-upper-lip routines won’t save you when the worst actually happens.

Unlike Threads, which traumatised an entire generation (my class who were forced to watch it at school included) with its brutal, documentary-style depiction of nuclear fallout, When the Wind Blows takes a gentler—though no less harrowing—approach. Where Threads is all raw panic and societal collapse, When the Wind Blows narrows the lens, focusing on one elderly couple fumbling through civil defence leaflets with heartbreaking optimism. Threads shows you the breakdown of everything. When the Wind Blows shows you what it feels like to keep calm and carry on while the world ends quietly around you. One is a howl, the other a sigh—but both leave you shaken to the core.

Visually stunning and unmistakably Wes Anderson, Isle of Dogs is like a lost Kurosawa film remade by a meticulous hipster taxidermist with a canine fixation—gorgeous to look at but emotionally neutered.Visually stunning and unmistakably Wes Anderson, Isle of Dogs is like a lost Kurosawa film remade by a meticulous hipster taxidermist with a canine fixation—gorgeous to look at but emotionally neutered.

The Fire Inside is a timely sports biopic that gives the boxing story a much-needed shake-up. This isn’t Rocky or Creed with a new face; this is Claressa Shields, forging her own path. The early big win is just the warm-up—the real fight is against cultural stereotypes and the grind for equal pay, a far tougher and more gripping battle. The performances, especially Brian Tyree Henry’s, are spot-on, and it’s no shock to see Barry Jenkins behind the script. The film lands its punches in the ring and where it really counts.

An absolute gem from Ealing Studios, The Ladykillers is a film I never tire of — a perfect portrait of Britain smiling sweetly as the walls cave in. Alec Guinness leads a gloriously decaying gang — Katie Johnson, Peter Sellers, Cecil Parker, Herbert Lom and Danny Green — in a story about hopeless criminals who can’t even outwit a little old lady with a parrot and a broken bannister.

For all its exquisite comedy, the truth is that The Ladykillers is a deeply reactionary, conservative film, almost a moral panic about Britain's decay during the rampant modernisation and reconstruction after World War Two.

Guinness, all deathly grins and crumbling teeth, floats through the film like a ghost who never quite got the hint. Still wet behind the ears, Sellers slouches about in teddy boy gear, the very picture of Britain’s terror of its own youth: all noise, no direction. One-Round, the ex-boxer, lumbers on as the forgotten working man. Lom’s character embodies that quiet, tight-lipped fear of the foreigner at the door. Meanwhile, the Major — medals polished, spine gone soft — stands as a mournful reminder that the aristocracy has long since checked out, leaving only the bill behind.

The real Britain is the house itself: a rotting Victorian monument collapsing gently into the railway lines, politely ignored by everyone until the final crash. Mackendrick’s direction is masterful: cheerfully musical, careful manners, murder politely arranged in the back room — all the things that made Britain great, now slightly moth-eaten and quietly sinking.

There’s a warning about outdated attitudes, but really, The Ladykillers is one long warning: a blackly funny obituary for a nation busily papering over the cracks, inviting the neighbours round for tea, and pretending the ceiling isn’t about to fall in.

It’s no doubt why the Coen Brothers’ remake fell so miserably flat: the comedy was still there, but stripped of the original’s brittle British sensibilities and its crumbling postwar backbone, all that remained was a harmless, weightless caper.

It’s glorious, grim, and somehow, every time, it feels like coming home — if home were a condemned building run by lunatics.

Port of Shadows is a brooding, beautifully gloomy slice of poetic realism full of fog, sadness, and fragile beauty. Jean Gabin oozes weary charm, while Marcel Carné crafts a world dripping in atmosphere and creeping despair. You can feel its fingerprints all over later Hollywood greats, from Casablanca to the shadowy corners of film noir. It’s a tough, bitter little film that hits harder the more you sit with it.

The Man Who Wasn’t There is a beautifully shot, bone-dry slice of existential noir where nobody really wins, and nobody even clocks the chaos unfurling around them. Billy Bob Thornton sleepwalks through a doomed life with a cigarette permanently stuck to his lip, while the Coens have fun with murder, dry-cleaning, and flying saucers. It’s maybe a bit too detached for its own good, but it’s so stylish and grimly funny you can’t help but admire the bleak artistry.

Watched this in preparation for the sequel’s release. The Accountant opens with an intriguing and surprisingly sympathetic premise, hinting at a more nuanced and inventive thriller than expected. However, it quickly loses footing, descending into an increasingly contrived and overcomplicated narrative. Despite a strong central performance, the film’s excessive length and underuse of supporting talent like Anna Kendrick and J.K. Simmons leave it feeling frustratingly hollow. Not without merit, but essentially a squandered opportunity.